


i danced with witches once

by morningsound15



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, Happy Halloween, NOT factually accurate, One-Shot, Prompt Fill, Salem Witch AU, Supernatural Elements, Tumblr Prompt, aka me ignoring all my other fics to post a halloween story, what a tag to use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: Rebeca Mitchell isnota witch. Chloe knows that she isn’t. Or at least, she believes that she cannot be.Beca cannot be a witch, because witches are evil, and vile, and inhuman. They are beasts, creatures of malice, followers of Satan himself. They cannot love, and they are unloveable.(Beca cannot be a witch, because Chloe loves her, and she cannot bear the thought that it may not be reciprocated.)





	i danced with witches once

**Author's Note:**

> i'm late on updating approximately 5 different fics but am i working on them? i mean yeah i am, but this is getting published first.
> 
> (please excuse my exaggerations about how the Salem witch trials went down it's for narrative not factual purposes i know it's not right they didn't burn anyone at the stake but the Drama folks the Drama)
> 
> (also please excuse the fact that i haven't updated anything in almost 1 year!! i've been, how shall we say, Going Through It)

**1.)**

Chloe Beale is the daughter of the most famous and well-respected Deacon in Salem, Massachusetts. Her father’s status means that she is held accountable for her actions in a way few other women of her time are. Ever since she tottered her first stumbling steps, she has had a list of duties — not chores so much as necessities. There are certain responsibilities she must complete, certain behaviors from which she must demur, certain reputable people she is expected to socialize with, and certain disreputable people she is expected to avoid as if they carry certain death on their person, ready to infect should she happen to wander just a step too close. “Pray remember, daughter,” her father would whisper with his hand vice-like digging into her shoulder, “do not allow womanish fribbles to lead you to distraction. Your actions reveal my judgment, and the sanctity of the Congregation. You will not be an embarrassment.”

And she has _not _been an embarrassment. Though she is a girl just shy of twenty, her moral fortitude — her piousness — is unmatched, nearly unparalleled. She spent so many hours of her girlhood kneeling on the floor of their house that her knees were oft rubbed raw, red and smarting like she had been punished. But it was not earthly punishment, rather penance. “Christ knows how many Devils there are in his Church, and where they walk.” Her father’s eyes would glint, sharp steel. “_Corruptio optimi est pessima_.”

“_Corruptio optimi est pessima_,” Chloe would repeat with solemnity, head bowed low towards the ground. She could barely feel the stinging in her joints anymore. The blessing of God’s love was more than enough to evacuate the worst of her ailments.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**2.)**  
****

Chloe has run into only 2 problems with her father and the Church since her childhood. The first is her lack of marital prospects. Being a woman of nearly twenty and still unmarried is not ideal, and she can expect a near daily barrage from both of her parents to accept the offer of one of nearly a half dozen men who have already asked for her hand. Luckily, as none of the prospects have been irrefutable (Barnabas Allen was odious — and Catholic on top of it; Benajah Applebaum’s family was both too poor and too Jewish to be a viable option; and rumor had it that Jesse Swanson had asked 3 girls to marry him within the same year, which did not bode well for his faithfulness), Chloe has managed to dodge answering any of them. She knows her situation cannot last much longer, however. It’s only a matter of time before her father brings her a husband she cannot refuse.

The second problem involves her choice of companionship. Chloe does not have many close friendships — she never had the desire — and until very recently, has spent most of her free time (those hours when she is not in prayer nor doing her household duties nor delivering alms to the poor) in the company of one young lady: Aubrey Posen, the daughter of respected Captain Jeremiah Posen and Chloe’s closest confidant since infancy. Their parents happily approve of their continued association. The Beales are a family of status and power and influence, the Posens of money and respectability and ties to England. Chloe knows that her father hopes, through the Posens, Chloe may meet a suitably pious husband (perhaps even an English Lord, or a businessman with a respectable if not excessive fortune).

Aubrey is a reputable, respectable companion.

Rebecca Mitchell, suspected practitioner of dark magics and the wicked pagan arts, is not.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**3.)**

Rebeca Mitchell is _not _a witch. Chloe knows that she isn’t. Or at least, she believes that she cannot be. Rebecca — or Beca, as she insists Chloe call her — is a quiet, thoughtful woman. She has no family, no station, nothing to speak of except a small homestead she operates alone. She tends a small garden in the back of her property — right at the boundary of the dense wooded forest that surrounds their small town — where she grows her own herbs and food. She is prone to night-time walks, particularly under bright skies and full moons. It is for this reason that some of the residents of the town of Salem suspect that she is a witch. A woman residing alone, without the livelihood of a husband or father sustaining her, who is sometimes seen walking about on her own on bright, cloudless nights, is not a woman to be trusted.  
****

Beca, curiously, seems oblivious to how she is perceived. Chloe finds this facet of her personality fascinating. Her entire personality is fascinating. For their friendship only exists because Beca has so little regard for conventions — the only young woman Chloe has ever met who exhibits such blatant disregard for what the Church considers upright. Beca is the one who initiated their meeting, their ensuing conversation, and the numerous occasions they have had to casually, ‘accidentally’ run into each other since. In the street, when Chloe is on her way to the market; in the fields through the first thicket of woods where they retreat on warm Saturday mornings in the spring, dew staining the hems of their skirts as they trek through unruly terrain; in the strawberry patch behind Old Man Elias’ cattle field every Tuesday in the summer, picking side-by-side and sneaking plump fruit swollen with juice that stains fingers and lips and chins alike. Beca has not been to Chloe’s home and Chloe has not been to hers. They forgo all talk of family, obligations, and the several dozen reasons they have that should mandate they immediately and unequivocally cease all further interactions.

(Of course, they do not cease their interactions. If anything, they only grow in both frequency and length.)

So you see, Chloe knows Beca cannot be a witch, because witches have no friends, no love; they work in darkness, and madness, magic and manipulation. Chloe has not been cursed, she has not suffered fainting spells, witnessed ghostly apparitions, or been forced to do the Devil’s bidding. She has not been sent into fits of convulsion or hysteria.

Beca cannot be a witch because Chloe is unaffected, and witches do not allow their acquaintances to go unaffected. Though they continue to see each other and Beca continues to have ample opportunity to bewitch her, corrupt her, she does nothing — nothing except smile when she says Chloe’s name, her head tipped low in deference. Nothing except pluck wild flowers from the field on the days they can manage to sneak away together; ties them into a bouquet with blades of long, cutting grass. Nothing except press her lips to Chloe’s cheek, close to her ear, breathless and warm as she whispers her farewells.

Beca cannot be a witch, because witches are evil, and vile, and inhuman. They are beasts, creatures of malice, followers of Satan himself. They cannot love, and they are unloveable.

(Beca cannot be a witch, because Chloe loves her, and she cannot bear the thought that it may not be reciprocated.)

** _._ **

** _._ **

** _._ **

** _._ **

**4.)**

The first words Chloe says upon entering Beca’s homestead are: “This does not look like a witch’s home.” She winces, already regretting the tactlessness of her conversation.

Beca merely scoffs. “_Witches,_” she sneers. “You spend too much of your time listening to your father. He is filling your head with lies and frivolities.”

The house is small, just one room. A table with a single chair in the center, a small fireplace built into the wall furthest from the door, a small cot tucked in the corner. Beca perches herself on the single chair, leaving Chloe no other choice but to stand or sit upon the bed.

She sits, and says, “I do not think witches are _frivolous._”

“They are not real. If not frivolity, what else could they be?”

Chloe picks at the thin bedspread beneath her fingers. She does not answer. Beca had not been looking for an answer anyway. Instead, Chloe lifts her head, and asks the question that has been at the forefront of her mind for the past several months, as long as their acquaintance has been growing.

“Why did you approach me?” Chloe asks the still room.

“Pardon?”

“We did not grow up together. I never knew of you, except the things whispered by others.”

Beca laughs. “You mean gossip.”

“Gossip, yes. But worrying gossip all the same.” A pause, then. Chloe tips her head. Beca’s attention is on her hands folded in her lap, and she sits very still. “We never had reason to meet. Yet you crafted a reason.”

“And you believe that was… suspicious.”

It is not quite a question. Still, Chloe evades. “My father thinks your interest in me is corrupt.”

Beca’s head jerks up. Her eyes seem to blaze. “_Corrupt?_”

“He does not trust you.”

Beca’s spine is stiff in her chair. “I have been accused of nothing.”

“He is suspicious of everyone,” Chloe attempts to demur, worried she’s said something inappropriate, something shocking and distressing, worried she’s shattered the tenuous serenity they’ve managed to found together over the past half-year. “It is nothing serious.”

But Beca is unswayed. “It _is _serious if it’s stopping us from seeing each other.”

“I’m here now, am I not? He has not stopped us.”

“You’re twitching like a newborn pup, you can hardly sit still.” Chloe flushes bright and stills her hands. Beca continues to stare at her, expression unreadable. “Why are you here, Chloe?”

It’s a question to which she does not have an answer. The simple truth — that Beca had invited her, and Chloe had been curious enough to accept her invitation — is far too mundane. She knows if she were to propose it to Beca now, she would be caught immediately in her fabrication. But she cannot explain the reasoning behind her actions. She seems to have so little reason, these days.

She stands from the bed and walks to the other side of the house. Beca watches her and does not move to follow. Chloe gazes out the front window with unseeing eyes, her hands twisting themselves into the fabric of her dress, her jaw working over unspoken words. Finally, she says, “I cannot seem to help it.” She turns back around, feeling miles away. “It’s as if… wherever you go, I feel compelled to follow.”

Chloe hears Beca swallow loudly. She takes a breath, as if stealing herself, and looks up to the ceiling. “I heard you singing.” Chloe frowns, not understanding. Beca glances at her and then glances away. “That is why I approached you.”

Chloe cannot help but laugh, but Beca does not laugh with her. The smile slips from Chloe’s face, and she frowns. “Is that true?”

“I used to hear you sing in services. When my parents died I stopped going to church, and I couldn’t hear you anymore. But then you started cutting through the woods, on your way home from schooling, and… The first few times it was merely an accident, but… your voice is so beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it. And you sing when you walk alone. I thought… I thought your songs were kind, and I wondered if you were, too.”

“You followed me?”

Beca turns a lovely, delicate pink. “I know it is strange of me to admit this to you now, to have spied upon you without your knowledge. I apologize, it was not my intention. It’s as if… something came over me. A possession, a madness. I… I felt I had to know you. I was gripped by a force I cannot comprehend, and I was powerless but to obey.” Beca’s blush darkens, and she turns her head. Her hands are fisted in the front of her skirts, and she tugs on the coarse fabric restlessly. “I sound foolish.”

“You do not sound foolish,” Chloe whispers, her own eyes bright. “I… I know the feeling.” She takes a tentative step forward and raises trembling hand to Beca’s cheek. Her thumb brushes, Beca’s eyelids flutter, and something tugs in Chloe’s stomach. “It’s like a bewitching.”

Beca’s eyes snap open. “I have not bewitched you,” she says quickly.

Chloe laughs. “Nor I, you. I could not even if I wanted.”

“Chloe,” Beca’s voice remains serious, “listen to me: I have not bewitched you.” There’s something to the weight of Beca’s gaze, something that makes Chloe pause. She does not move. There is an electricity between them; the air crackles, charged like the sky before a summer storm.

“Okay,” Chloe whispers, her eyes locked to Beca’s. She cannot look away.

The kiss Beca presses to her lips is soft and unexpected. Chloe has never been kissed, has never even desired the feeling. She always imagined an unpleasant, wet, uncomfortable experience, trembling against the stiff body of some faceless man with rough hands and rougher skin.

But Beca’s skin is soft; her body yields when Chloe falls into it. Her hands are sure and focused as they trace her neck, wind into her hair, push her dress off her shoulders, but they are not rough and incessant; they guide her gently onto the cot. Her lips leave fire in their wake as they skirt Chloe’s cheek and down her chest. Her tongue traces Chloe’s breasts, sneaks a sinful path up bare thighs.

Beca’s fingers slip inside of her. Her breath is hot on Chloe’s lips and her eyes seem to burn straight through her. Chloe gasps like the breath has been stolen from her chest and trembles like she’s going to shake apart.

“Convulsions,” Chloe say breathlessly, her chest heaving. She is entirely exposed to the world in front of another person — another _woman, _no less — and has just committed a cardinal, lustful, adulterous sin. She feels nothing but rapture. “Is this how it feels to be cursed by a witch?”

“You think too much of witches.”

“I cannot help it. What we just did… it was supernatural.”

Beca laughs and rolls onto her stomach. She throws an arm over Chloe’s hips, presses kisses to Chloe’s bare shoulder, and Chloe shivers from the pleasure of it. “You believe it was dark magic?” Beca murmurs teasingly into her skin, her fingers tickling Chloe’s ribs.

“M-magic, perhaps,” Chloe, flushed and panting and skin slick, is nearly gasping, “but not dark. Nothing that feels like this can be evil.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.” Chloe swears her heart stutters to a stop and hangs, still in the moment before painfully restarting. “Is that even possible? Is it… am I too bold in my pronouncement?”

“No,” Chloe whispers back at her. “Not too bold. I think I have fallen in love with you, too.”

** _._ **

** _._ **

** _._ **

** _._ **

**5.)**

She leaves Beca the next morning with a swift kiss and flushing cheeks. Beca beams at her as Chloe slips away from her, sneaking off through the woods and towards her own homestead.  
****

She holds her breath as she sneaks inside and tries to make as little noise as possible. The ground beneath her feet is solid but smooth, and her shoes glide over it nearly soundless. Her mother and sister might still be asleep — she is unsure of the precise hour — or else they’ve already gone to market. Father must surely be in service already. If he was in a hurry he might have even left without noticing her glaring absence. Chloe sends up a short prayer to the Almighty that that is the case.

But of course, she is not so lucky. She never has been.

“Where have you been?”

Chloe freezes mid-step, her heart already turning to ice. She swallows thickly and turns slowly. Her father is seated in the kitchen, his hat upon his knee and his face empty save for a few dark shadows. “F-father,” Chloe straightens her spine, does her best not to tug at the skirt of her dress. “I was just… calling on Mrs. Hawthorne. You know she has two little ones both ill with diphtheria.” Her father stands and makes his way slowly towards her. Chloe holds her ground and continues speaking, as calmly as possible. “They haven’t been resting, so I went to see what little relief I could provi—”

_Smack. _The back of his hand connects with her cheek and Chloe stumbles, nearly crashing to the ground. She grips at her smarting cheek and turns her fearful gaze up at her father. He stands over her, fully glowering, now. “You lie,” he snarls at her, and it’s all Chloe can do to shake her head.

“I… no. I’m not lying. I haven’t been—”

“You did not come home last night. Tell me, harlot — in which young man’s bed did you spend your wicked night?”

“There is no _man, _Father, I _promise—_”

“Captain Posen spotted you with Rebecca Mitchell yesterday.” Chloe falls silent, and curses her fair complexion and the way it so easily draws a blush. “Is that who you were with?” His words sound near-murderous.

Chloe shakes her head again, but he only seems to grow larger in front of her. He towers above her, a fire gleaming in his eyes. “You spent your night cavorting with that _witch_?”

“She is _not _a witch, Father! She is kind, and generous, and she _loves _me.”

He looks down at her with unbridled disgust and spits at the ground by her feet. “_No one_ can love you.”

**.**

**.**

By the time she makes it to Beca’s home, she’s already too late. The door stands ajar, creaking on its hinges in the early-afternoon breeze. Chloe doesn’t even bother trudging through the gate to peer inside; she knows with a certain inevitable heaviness that there is nothing there for her to find.

She follows the sounds of revelry all the way through the outskirts of the village, picking her way in some sort of daze through empty streets and past dark cabins. The sounds grow louder and Chloe stumbles towards them like a moth to a flame.

When she gets to the center of town she feels the world crash back into consciousness. What looks to be the entire town has gathered near the steps of the church. Parents with small children perched upon their shoulders, housewives and mothers still with aprons tied around their waists from working in the kitchen. Chloe pushes her way through them all, ignoring the looks and hissed words tossed her way.

Her father’s voice trickles through the crowd towards her, and Chloe hones in on it and stumbles, breathless. “The Devil is using this woman to lead astray the youths of our village with her little sorceries. With her black magic she has controlled the mind and possessed the body of many young women from our good Congregation, forcing them to submit to her vile evilness. She threatens the sanctity, the _chastity _of our daughters! For her crimes she has been arrested, and now will face the Judgment of the Vengeful and Almighty Lord.” The crowd cheers, a deafening roar of obscenities and curses hurled into the night.

“No!" Chloe shouts above the din, pushing her way towards him. Her eyes catch on Beca, standing still and defiant with body tied to a towering post. Chloe feels a grip of panic over her heart, and her stomach, and lets out a strangled cry that bears no resemblance to human speech. "Father," she sobs, her eyes fixed on Beca. Her head is tipped up to the sky, her eyes closed. She does not even appear to be breathing. Chloe lunges for her, but strong arms catch her around the middle. "No," she gasps, "_please, _you can’t—”

“I can and I will!” He grabs Chloe’s face in his hands, squeezing her tight. His eyes are wild, mad and unseeing. Chloe wants to recoil from him, pull herself from his grasp, but his grip is too strong. His fingers leave bruises along her neck, her jaw, and she bites her tongue hard enough to taste blood to stop from whimpering from the pain. “We are God’s _chosen_ people,” he whispers, his words meant only for her, “but we have fallen from His grace. He sends us these witches as a temptation, a _scourge _on our town. In order to return to His favor we must eradicate the disease.”

“No.”

He shoves her away from him, turning back to the swarming masses. “For her crimes, she has been arrested. And for her crimes, she will burn!”

There’s a roar of agreement from the crowd. Chloe fights back a wail. She can see Aubrey off to the side of the frenzied mass, her face pale and her jaw trembling. She meets Chloe’s gaze with eyes full of tears and turns away almost at once, like she can’t bear to watch.

Chloe fumbles upright, her feet and hands scrabbling in the mud. Her dress must be a hideous sight now but she hardly cares, can barely spare a thought for the ruined fabric. Beca is tied to a pyre in front of her, her head tipped back, her eyes closed to the sky. Chloe feels tar in her stomach. Her feet sink into the ground like the earth itself is grabbing hold of her, refusing to let her go.

She cries out, “No. NO!” But her screams are drowned out by the roaring of the crowd. Her father lowers his torch towards the pyre, and Chloe rips her head away, already ill, unable to look. The wood catches with a sickening crackle, and the jeers only grow louder. Chloe barrels away from the scene like she’s the one at risk of being burnt. She stumbles from the town square on legs that cannot support her, crashing blind through unfriendly bodies until she finally breaks free. The pathways are dark and twisting, and she allows her feet to carry her without thought to her destination.

She crashes through the door to the empty house. It is dark inside, and cold; there should be a fire burning in the hearth but there is no one left to tend it. A wooden plate sits on the table with a half-eaten loaf still perched upon it. Chloe thinks they must have grabbed her while she was unawares.

She feels next to nothing. She would cry, she thinks, were there any breath left inside of her. Instead she stumbles forward, tripping over her own feet, and falls face-first into the hard cot. She shivers violently but does not move to pull the quilt over her trembling body. She wraps her arms around her stomach and does not move and hopes, hopes that she’ll stop breathing.

** _._ **

** _._ **

** _._ **

** _._ **

**+1.)**

She awakens in Beca’s bed many hours later. The sun has long set; the world is in darkness now, and will remain as such likely for a few hours longer.  
****

Beca’s house is dark. Of course it is. She was the only inhabitant, and now she’s—

The door is unlocked. It always is. Beca once told her she had nothing to fear from the outside world. If only she had known…

The moon outside is full. It illuminates the world, casting long and twisting shadows upon the ground. Chloe shivers as she peers out at them, for reasons she can’t quite explain.

The shadows are moving. Chloe blinks and rubs at her eyes, sure she must be seeing things, but— _There. _Right by the forest, where the path meets the trees, there’s… a figure, shrouded in black. And it seems to be creeping this way.

Chloe fumbles, her back slamming against the wall behind her. She clutches Beca’s bedroll to her heaving chest, her mouth frozen open in a silent scream. A demon is approaching, or perhaps a dark spirit; there is something wicked out in the woods, something haunting. It claimed Beca’s life earlier today and now it is here to claim hers. She’s set up residence in a dead woman’s home and the Devil is not pleased with her for it. He’s come to take her, to pull her soul from her body, to bewitch and entangle her in the dark magics.

She fumbles, her hands trembling so badly they can barely hold flint and steel. She strikes once, twice, thrice, each movement more desperate than the one before. Finally, on her fifth attempt, a spark flies onto the candle by the bed. It catches fire, and Chloe can see once more.

She whips her attention back to the window, her eyes searching, her heart pounding heavy and pressing in her chest. She’s breathing hard, already in a panic, and she feels light-headed. But there is movement neither outside nor in. Chloe rubs at her eyes but it does little to calm her nerves.

“A trick of the light,” she mutters to herself. “A trick of the light and the illusion of a dream. That is all it was. No specter or ghoul, just… just my imagination.”

A shadow passes over the door, and finally, Chloe screams.

The door crashes open with a loud _bang, _and Chloe screams again, higher this time and louder, a wrenching shrill that tears at her throat and burns at her lungs and the figure races into the house, its taloned claws reaching for her face, and Chloe twists away from the horror and kicks out as hard as she can.

Her heel connects with something soft and pliant, and the demon buckles with a soft _“Ooph,_” like the breath has been torn from its lungs. It collapses onto the ground wheezing, and its hood falls from atop its gruesome head, and—

“_Beca?_”

“You _struc_k me.”

Chloe stares down at her, her mouth wide open. “I… I thought you were a _demon._”

“No demon, just a foolish woman hoping to silence your screams before they drew the whole village to us.”

Chloe can't blink. She fears that if she does, the ghost in front of her might vanish into the air, never to be seen again. “I thought you had died.”

Beca shakes her head, clambering slowly to her feet. “I seem to have dodged death twice today.” She rubs at her middle, still wincing. “Was your father part-donkey? You kick like a mule.”

Chloe can’t believe this is happening. She can’t _believe it. _She saw Beca _die _this afternoon. Or… well, she saw her father light the woman on fire. That’s not exactly something you can just _walk away _from. The only explanation could be— “You… you _are _a witch,” Chloe says, breathless.

Beca winces like she’s been struck again. “Please, Chloe, hold your tongue,” she hisses. “And put that light out. If any of the nearby homesteads discover—”

“H-how did you _survive? _I… I saw… They lit a _fire _under you.” Beca ignores her, turning to a large trunk at the foot of the bed. Chloe frowns. “What are you doing?”

Beca is rummaging through her belongings, throwing together everything she can carry into one canvass sack. “I cannot stay, Chloe. You know that as well as I. They’ll have my head, next. The fact I escaped today was luck; nothing more than that.”

“I… But I _saw _you.”

“You saw nothing.”

“They set you aflame, yet you did not burn.”

“A trick of the light, that’s all.”

Chloe grabs her by the arm and wrenches her around. “Do not imply that I am _mad_, Beca. I am not my father; I am not the men of this village — I am not prone to wild, feverish bouts of anger and accusation. I do not mean to _accuse _you, only to confirm what I already know.”

Beca stares at her, eyes cold and expression unreadable. “And what is it you think you know?”

“You’re a witch. There is no other way you could have survived that fire were it not for—”

“For what?” Beca snaps. “God’s intervention? A pact with the Devil, with goblins and ghouls?”

“For _magic._” Chloe breathes the word like a prayer, and it pauses Beca.

She swallows. “Would it matter? If I _was _a witch?”

“Are you working on behalf of the Devil?”

Beca scoffs. “_No. _How ridiculous.”

“If you _were _one of Satan’s minions would you be inclined to tell me?”

“If I _were _one of Satan’s minions I would already have your soul in hand, would I not? It matters little which power I serve.”

Chloe takes a moment to think. She quirks her head. “Can you guarantee that you will not get caught? That the next town you find yourself in will not chase you from its borders with pitchforks and flames?”

Beca swallows again and says, quieter and more seriously, “No. That is not a guarantee I can provide. When I leave here tonight, there is a very good chance I will be dead in months. We will not see each other again.”

Chloe takes a deep breath. “Can you teach me to be a witch, too?”

Beca’s eyes grow impossibly wide. “You—”

“If I wish to learn magics, are you able to teach me?”

“I… yes. Yes, I can teach you.”

Chloe finally takes Beca’s hand in hers. “Then let us go, quickly; before they think to search for you.”

They dash off together into the night, Chloe’s dress flapping behind her in the wind and Beca’s dress, a little singed ‘round the edges, catches on twigs and branches and the debris of the forest floor.

The moon is full in the sky, the air is crisp and clear, and their feet move so swiftly across the ground that Chloe swears they must be flying.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to come talk to me on [ tumblr ](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/).


End file.
